


Sealed Evil in a Jar

by neverminetohold



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adorkable, Attempt at Humor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1299625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/pseuds/neverminetohold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Don't judge the book by its cover' applies to both Hobbits and Dwarrows.</p><p>OR: Dwalin is the cookie monster and Bilbo wields a mean mallet...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sealed Evil in a Jar

The green door opened to reveal a flustered looking Hobbit with honey curls and a pudgy middle, dressed in striped pajamas and a hastily overthrown gown. There was a moment of awkward silence, only disturbed by the hoot of an owl, as they took each others measure.  
  
So this meek little creature, pale as death when confronted with an armed khazâd was to be their burglar, meant to sneak around a dragon's hoard. Thorin would be _thrilled_. The sight before him did not bode well for their plans.  
  
“Dwalin, at your service,” he said and bowed in Dwarven fashion, paying his curiously caught off-guard seeming host the due respect without lowering his eyes, as befit a warrior of his renown.  
  
“Bilbo Baggins, at yours.”  
  
There was not much hesitation to the Hobbit's answer, ingrained politeness coming to the rescue. He fiddled with his belt, trying to make himself more presentable, but Dwalin was too preoccupied with the enticing smell of fried fish to take notice.  
  
“Which way, laddie? Is it down here?”  
  
Widening eyes as green as grass blinked up at him in confusion. “Is what where?”  
  
“Supper,” Dwalin clarified, loosening the clasp of his cloak and throwing it into the Hobbit's arms as he pushed past, following his nose straight to the kitchen table. “He said there would be food, and lots of it.”  
  
“Who said?”  
  
And so Dwalin got his first taste of Master Baggins marvelous talent when it came to cooking, and soon began to suspect that even the most respectable Hobbit was not above boiling over when faced with a home invasion.  
  
But that came after the mention of conkers, the blunting of knives, more fussing about doilies and china than he had thought possible, fainting like a swooning maiden, and the amusement that could be derived by watching Thorin's reaction to it all.  
  
In fact, it happened without witnesses...  
  
XXX  
  
Dwalin had slunk away from the others, lured by the promise of what he had discovered just before Balin's arrival.  
  
He made a beeline for the jar that sat atop the fireplace, fished for a cookie and stuffed it into his mouth with a manly moan of delight. Walnuts crunched between his teeth as he chewed, and the sweetness of honey and fire of spices spread over his tongue.  
  
It was an exotic combination and knowing Bombur's stews, no matter how appreciated out in the wilds, Dwalin began to hope that the Hobbit would reconsider.  
  
He made quick work of the contents, but had to strain to reach the last one, and perhaps it was then that his wrist slipped in too far. Dwalin cursed up a storm in khuzdul and shook his hand until the grinding of metal on pottery rang in the cozy living room.  
  
He accomplished nothing, of course, except for making himself look like a right fool and crushing the remaining cookie to crumbs, not to mention the picture frame he knocked over and managed to catch at the last second.  
  
Thank Mahal that he was alone!  
  
“Stealing cookies like a wee fauntling, really? Oh, this takes the cake!”  
  
Dwalin nearly jumped out of skin and turned to face a fuming Hobbit, clearly fed up beyond care of being intimidated, hands on his hips, cheeks flushed and eyes a shade darker in his outrage.  
  
It made Bilbo Baggins look like a bristling kitten and just as adorable, and what kind of random thought to have was that?!  
  
They stood there for a moment, Dwalin in his heavy armor, with two axes strapped to his back, the very picture of a grim warrior except for the dangling cookie jar, and the Hobbit, who struggled with his temper, outwardly calm but for his clenched fists.  
  
With a lemon-pinched smile that would have had Lobelia Sackville-Baggins running for the hills in fright, Bilbo inquired mildly: “Were they to your taste?”  
  
“Delicious,” Dwalin blurted, all blunt honesty, compelled to it by the feeling of unease that pricked the skin of his bald head. “Thank you.”  
  
“Hm,” Bilbo made, the tiniest bit mollified by this scrap of dearly missed manners. “And will you set that down any time soon?”  
  
Dwalin grumbled an answer that got lost in his beard.  
  
“Come again?”  
  
“I'm stuck,” he repeated, decidedly not blushing.  
  
“You are stuck,” Bilbo echoed slowly, as if sure he had misheard despite the evidence to the contrary right in front of his eyes. His lips twitched. “I see.”  
  
Dwalin glowered down at him, but it seemed he had lost all powers of intimidation right along with his dignity. A sweet tooth was a terrible weakness to have indeed!  
  
“Right, sorry.” Bilbo coughed to stifle the laugh that threatened to bubble up his throat. “That's not funny, no, not at all.”  
  
He tapped his temple with one finger, mulling the problem over. They could try oil or butter, but that jar was such a yellow-brown monstrosity, so ugly that he had never even dared to make it a birthday gift... Now there was a thought!  
  
”Wait here.”  
  
And off the Hobbit went, only to return a moment later with a spiked hammer. Not the kind found in any forge, but a mallet used to tenderize meat, the strikes more often than not driven by the users vivid imagination – or perhaps that was a dwarrowdam thing.  
  
“Now hold still!”  
  
Dwalin could not even protest before the mallet smashed down on the jar and a shower of shards, clay dust and crumbs rained on his boots and the carpet.  
  
“There.” Bilbo gave a satisfied nod and twirled the mallet. “All done.”  
  
Dwalin stared down, flexing his fingers and rubbing the red circle around his wrist, before giving the grinning Hobbit the fiercest glare he could muster – only to have the business end of a broom shoved under his nose.  
  
“Oh, don't be a chicken, I knew you would be fine, what with those knuckle dusters of yours,” Bilbo huffed, now quite certain that he had uncovered the truth about Dwalin, which was all about cores and softness. “And now be so kind and clean that up.”  
  
The Wizard chose that moment to stroll past, ducking his way around the chandelier and down the corridor, and all merry twinkling was gone from Bilbo Baggins' eyes as he rushed after him without a second thought for the Dwarf he had so callously condemned to cleaning duty.  
  
“Gandalf. A word, if you please.”  
  
XXX  
  
Dwalin had stopped listening to Thorin's complaints about the Hobbit and his change of heart a while ago, but an irritated sigh brought him back to the present.  
  
“Give him a chance to prove himself,” Balin said, voice of reason as always.  
  
“Agreed.” Dwalin turned to see Fíli and Kíli grab and lift Bilbo into the saddle of his pony, now that the matter of bets won and lost had been settled. His own pocket was pretty heavy. “He might surprise you.”  
  
Thorin kept his silence and rode ahead, and Balin took his place beside Dwalin, stirring his pony with a gentle hand.  
  
“So tell me, what did change your mind?”  
  
Dwalin shrugged, dividing his attention between the road ahead and the sneezing behind. Not that he was keeping an eye on the Hobbit. “He managed to sneak up on me.”  
  
“Hm,” Balin hummed, a smug note of omniscient elder brother entering his voice. “And those shards swept underneath the carpet?”  
  
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”


End file.
